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Death Never Dies
Death Never Dies is a canon small story that took place sometime after the events of ''Welcome to Silent Hill'', detailing Sylvanas' time after being trapped away in a dead version of Azeroth. It can be found here. Characters * Agatha * Arthura * Bolvar Fordragon * Daschla * Sylvanas Windrunner * Yogg-saron Story Details "I am The Lucid Dream, the monster in your nightmares, the Fiend of a Thousand Faces." Silent Hill didn't break Sylvanas. Silent Hill was what would make Sylvanas into a god. "Expect no mercy when he comes to reap." ----- The short story features Sylvanas, who's found herself atop Icecrown Citadel surrounded by her guardian Val'kyr, Agatha, Arthura, and Daschla, in a supposedly dead version of Azeroth. They propose that she slay Bolvar Fordragon; the next appointed Lich King; and take his place on the Frozen Throne, handing her a repaired Frostmourne. She obliges upon hearing the whispers of Yogg-saron in her mind, and puts a permanent end to Bolvar's life, taking his crown and placing it upon her own head. Transcript Fading memories sparked throughout the accursed elf’s brain, while the cold saronite that had brought her to her fourth end continued to rip apart the fragile connections that still brought Sylvanas subconscious thought. She remained in a dream-like state as the unholy powers that kept her in a limbo between life and death - just as they have since the runeblade Frostmourne forced her last breath to fall short - slipped away at a snail’s pace. The dream brought her through a memory lane, of sorts, each time in her past passing by in reverse chronological order. Sylvanas felt an indescribable turmoil having to experience the damage her years spent in Silent Hill had wreaked upon her once more, but then came her time under the Warchief Garrosh’s rule. Not only a horrid time for her, but for her people as well. The Forsaken were publicly shunned by the Horde, - as were the Trolls - and denounced as a war-mongering kingdom of wretches. Though, not long before that, was a time for rejoicing. The Lich King’s fall fulfilled Sylvanas’ deepest desire for vengeance upon the man responsible for the destruction of home of Quel’Thalas, and ensured the Forsaken a secure future through the Val’Kyr. With their help, Sylvanas was finally able to recruit new undead to join her ranks. She swore, that she could still hear their wonderfully cacophonic songs, and that they...were becoming louder. Suddenly, the memories began to speed past. Every single one meshed back together again, like someone was picking up the pieces of her shattered mind and glueing them all back together. Sylvanas could nary hold a single thought still while she sped back into the conscious world. She awoke with a sharp gasp, and writhed upon the cold metal floor she now found herself laid down on. Upon forcing her red eyes open, she felt an old joy returning to her. “Agatha...Arthura, Daschla!” Sylvanas blurted. Before her floated three heavenly forms - translucent, beautiful feminine figures, with large wings outspread proudly - which all smiled sweetly underneath their thick helmets. “How have you brought me back? You three died in Silverpine!” “Hush, Lady Sylvanas. That is of no importance.” the first of them - Agatha - interrupted, raising a pale white hand gently. “What is important, is why.” Sylvanas’ joy was then replaced by an odd curiosity. “Go on.” she managed to mutter. “We did not plan on your...absence...from the realm of Azeroth.” Agatha continued. Sylvanas’ clever elven ears could a change of pitch in Agatha’s voice. It now sounded as if a man were imitating her. “Nor did we plan on your second attempt at suicide. It left us, and the rest of the Forsaken, leaderless once more.” It was unlike Agatha to beat around the bush as she was, Sylvanas silently noted. She was often as blunt as they come; something Sylvanas enjoyed. “Get to the point, Agatha. I have no need for superfluous additions to your explanation.” she barked, finally coming to stand upon the cold saronite of the Frozen Throne once again. Saronite...how Arthas loved it. Only now did she come to recognize the metal. A strange new observation, as it looked just like any old iron or steel. She paid little more mind to it. “As you wish, Lady Sylvanas.” Agatha obeyed with a short bow. The angelic servant floated aside and directed her master’s attention towards the seat Bolvar Fordragon currently occupied, donning the Lich King’s helmet. Sylvanas quirked a silver brow quizzically. “No king rules forever.” Agatha began, “But death...is eternal.” “Both Arthas and Bolvar were mortal men, but you, Lady Sylvanas...you are not. You are death itself!” Agatha bellowed. Her voice now resounded with a power that hadn’t been there before. “Agatha...you don’t mean to suggest…” The Val’Kyr emitted a hearty laugh, with that same unseen power. “Oh yes, Lady Sylvanas, I do.” Arthura and Daschla returned in silence, holding Frostmourne - fully repaired, as if it had never shattered - proudly before Sylvanas as an offering. She hadn’t seen them leave. In fact, she hadn’t heard them speak, either… “Bolvar’s heart still rests with the Light. He is weak. You are ruthless! Cunning! You are the leader the Scourge deserves!” Sylvanas couldn’t help but ogle at Frostmourne’s chilling sheen. It...whispered to her. It beckoned her, with a voice indescribable. Take...me… Hold...me… Use...me! Claim...what is...yours... Become... legend! Sylvanas couldn’t resist the accursed weapon’s call, and quickly lunged forward towards it, grasping it within her right hand. She released a sigh of relief while tightening her grip around the runeblade’s hilt, hearing the leather over her palm wince while she did so. Soon, it sounded like both Frostmourne and Agatha commanded her. “Now, strike Bolvar out of his binds!” Now, strike Bolvar out of his binds! Sylvanas opened her eyes again. When did she close them? She couldn’t recall. Having Frostmourne within her grasp numbed every thought with an unnatural sense of fulfillment. Arthura and Daschla were gone. Why did it matter? It didn’t. Sylvanas lurched ahead with the task given to her in mind, raising the blade high, and piercing it through the thick ice with a fearsome shout. The weapon gave her power, she knew it. The initial impact sent ripples across the face of the icy tomb, and all it took to make it crumble was to reel the sword back out. Bolvar was dazed by the interruption of his slumber. The perfect time to strike. Agatha’s voice was gone. What guided her now was the voice of a thousand faces. Slay him. Take the crown! Wear it as your own! Sylvanas required no orders now. Her blade moved on its own, piercing Bolvar’s heart just as it had his tomb. She could hear the man’s dying breath. No shout, no struggle. Only swift termination. She wrenched Frostmourne away, and watched Bolvar fall limp. Pathetic. She then tore off his crown, and observed his lifeless eyes. She felt no pity for him. Sylvanas ripped him off the throne, and launched him away, and into the saronite pits below her. The disembodied voice ordering her began to laugh while she set the Lich King’s crown upon her head. That voice soon became her own, and they laughed in unison. Sylvanas sat herself down upon the Frozen Throne, Frostmourne in hand, and a world to conquer. It’s good to be Queen. Trivia * This is the first canonical side-story. Category:Side Stories